Can't Make You Love Me
by runclevergirl
Summary: He never actually said it, but I'm sorry was in every touch of his hand, every bruising kiss and incoherent murmur. Written for the Let's Write Sherlock songfic prompt on tumblr. "I Can't Make You Love Me" by Bonnie Raitt is the song. Rated M for not-very-explicit sex. John/Mary, but Johnlock all the way.


Written for Let's Write Sherlock, over at tumblr. The song is "I Can't Make You Love Me" by Bonnie Raitt. Could be a tad cliche but it was bouncing around in my head and wouldn't leave me alone. Give the song a listen, if you like, as I tried to stick the story line close to the progression of the song. Hope you enjoy, and as always, reviews are more than appreciated.

I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters, and I do not own the beautiful song that served as inspiration.

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She'd known it all along, she would never be able to keep him. She could never hold him like he can. It was through no real failing on her part, she just wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

She had tried, though. Oh, she had tried to make John love her. And it couldn't be said that he didn't give it his best shot. With Mary, he could've had something, they both knew this. Mary knew, as he slipped into bed with her, that this would be the last time. When calloused hands grazed her skin, she sighed as her mind quieted. He could give her this. This last, short reprieve.

He knew it too, that this was the end for them. To his credit, he said nothing to try and make this better, easier for her. Mary was an amazing woman. Smart, strong, and kind. He could have loved her, if he hadn't already given it all to someone else. It was Mary herself who'd made him realize it, not too long after Sherlock had performed that one last miracle. In her blunt but somehow gentle way, she'd said simply, "You're in love with Sherlock Holmes, John." and her sad smile was touched with a hint of amusement, of irony. Denial soon followed, and she'd only shaken her head, her smile never slipping.

So now, here they were, holding tightly to each other even as they broke apart.

He never actually said it, but _I'm sorry_ was in every touch of his hand, every bruising kiss and incoherent murmur. Her response, _Me too_, was written in the harsh lines her nails left on his shoulders and back, the way her breath carried his name from her lips only to be muffled against his own skin.

It hurt him, it really did, that she wouldn't open her eyes. But he knew why she wouldn't. He didn't love her, not like she wanted him to, and she didn't want to see the evidence of it that he was sure would be found in his own eyes. But he was selfish, he needed to see, just one last time.

"Look at me, Mary, please."

She thought briefly of refusing him this. She had every right after all. But then that selfish part of her reared up as well. She wanted him to see, to know what she was feeling. So she reached up, threaded her fingers through his short hair and then curled her hand into a fist. Startled by the sudden pain in his scalp, he understood that this was her command that he be still. He froze above her and she opened her eyes.

He wished he hadn't asked this of her. Her pupils were blown wide with desire, only a rim of golden brown irises shimmered in the scant light. But he saw exactly what she wanted him to. Hurt and sorrow and _anger_. The fight hadn't left her yet, and while they both knew it would, Mary used it to her advantage. Ruthlessly.

John was soundly asleep when she slid from his bed. The air was still heavy with the scent of sex and words left unspoken, and in the almost light of near dawn, she read the story written on her skin and his. There were finger shaped bruises on both her hips and her right wrist. Purpling marks on her collar bones, her neck and shoulders. Her lips were swollen and red, eyes bloodshot with sleeplessness and emotion. John slept on his stomach, his back and shoulders crossed with angry red scratches. His right shoulder bore an impressive bite mark. She saw the cut on his lower lip and remembered the copper-and-salt taste of his blood on her tongue.

Mary dressed and pulled her tangled hair back with the tie she'd managed to find discarded on the other side of the room. She looked down at John, taking in his features. His expression was soft in sleep, no nightmares had twisted his mouth into a grimace or etched lines into his forehead that night. "Goodbye, John." she whispered, nearly inaudible to her own ears, and he did not stir.

She made her way down the stairs and was mostly unsurprised to see the Consulting Detective leaning almost casually against the wall just beyond the stairs. There was tension in the line of his shoulders, though, an anxiousness about him that really did not suit the man. Mary knew that it didn't take someone with his extraordinary deductive reasoning to know what had transpired the previous night.

She saw him take a breath to speak and cut him off. "You love him too. Good." she said crisply, "Don't lose him, Mr. Holmes. It's hard enough knowing that I never had him." With those words, she brushed past him and left 221B.

Mary Morstan was an extraordinary woman, indeed.

Sherlock watched her leave Baker Street, leave John Watson, without a backwards glance. His first instinct was to think her incredibly stupid. But his second, the one that had only started showing itself after he'd met John, told him that he had a lot in common with Mary.

He knew what it felt like to leave John. But, while Sherlock had intended to come back, Mary did not. He would never posses that sort of selflessness. (Though anyone else would have argued throwing yourself off a roof for another person showed quite a significant amount of selflessness, for Sherlock it was just logic.)

He realized just before she turned a corner that he wanted to tell her something. It was very unlike him, but he presumed it was the same part of him that had him faking his own death that made him dart into the street. What he did now somehow felt just as necessary, and though he rolled his eyes at his own sentiment, Sherlock propelled himself down the street.

"Mary! Wait!"

She heard her name being called. It wasn't John, the voice was too deep. Mary turned to find Sherlock running down the mostly deserted sidewalk, feet and chest bare but clothed in old grey trousers and a blue dressing gown.

"What on earth-"

"Thank you."

Mary stood, frozen with shock, staring at the tall man who'd come to a stop an arms length away from her. Sherlock -bloody- Holmes had just thanked her. After taking a moment to wrap her mind around this, she asked, "For what?"

He glanced away, looking anywhere but at her, clearly uncomfortable. "Believing in John Watson." he finally murmured. "Loving him when you knew he couldn't love you. And... and walking away."

Mary and Sherlock stood there for some time, until she spoke, soft resignation in her voice. "I'm not a saint, Holmes. If I had a chance, if I could make him love me, I'd never be able to do this. You and I both know that if I didn't leave, he'd try and make it work with us, that's the sort of man he is. But I wouldn't be able to stand it." She smiles sardonically, "Besides, who am I to stand in the way of love like that?"

He nodded, and curiously, he asked, "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

Sherlock struggles a bit, like he's fighting to push the words from his mouth, "That I... that I love him."

She gave an amused snort and rolled her eyes, "Of course you do, you idiot. You died and came back to life for him." More quietly, she went on, "You fought and killed for him. You think you hide it well, but it's written all over you, Sherlock, for those who care to see."

It goes unsaid, but he heard it nonetheless. Sometimes, it's far better to see than to observe.

Mary took a deep breath and drew herself up, "Remember what I said, then."

"Of course." he replied. Warm brown eyes met cool grey and there was a certain understanding there.

"Goodbye, Mary."

A wordless nod in return.

And then she was gone.


End file.
